


Preludes to the Nights to Come

by puella_nerdii



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Porn Battle, Romance, Wall Sex, canon hurts, canon hurts a lot, slightly heartbreaking sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:19:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_nerdii/pseuds/puella_nerdii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomorrow, Finnick has to return to the Capitol. Tonight is for him and Annie. (In which there is desperate sex-against-a-wall porn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preludes to the Nights to Come

They don't say anything for a good fifteen minutes after they cast off from the dock. Annie darns socks. Finnick starts to braid a necklace for her, but gives up when he pulls all the knots too tight and creates a hopeless snarl of rope. He casts it down, rests his head in his hands instead.

Neither of them mentions the Capitol. They try not to when he's home but it slithers into the periphery, insinuates itself into the pauses in their conversation. When Finnick's hands stop moving. When Annie covers her ears because she hears all too well what isn't being said.

He's going back tomorrow. She isn't. It's not an option for her to. It's not really an option for him either, come to think of it, but he'd rather _not_ think of it, so he doesn't. He leans back, his face tilted towards the sun, tunes everything out but the sound of the waves lapping at the hull and the clicking noises Annie makes with her tongue sometimes when she sews.

"Finnick," she says.

He looks up. "Yeah?"

She looks at the pile of socks in her lap and pushes them off, shakes her head, her hair falling forward around the sides of her face. "I can't."

Finnick walks over and covers her hands with his, presses them both to his lips. The sun's been weighing on them for hours but her hands are still cold, so he holds them tighter. He remembers how warm they get after she's washed the dishes or stepped out of the shower or run down the beach. How warm they are when she runs them down his back in bed. It's nothing like in the Capitol—

 _No. It's nothing like the Capitol. So stop thinking about it._

"Finnick?"

"Sorry," he says.

"Don't leave. Stay."

"It's only for a few weeks." And he always comes back after that, sits on the shore with her and cradles her in his arms and waits for the tide to wash them both clean.

She shakes her head, more violently this time. "No. You're leaving now. Don't go."

He's learned to read her, and he reads her now. _Be with me,_ she's telling him, not just with her words but with how she twines her fingers with his, how she rests her chin on his shoulder. _Be_ you _. Stay for me, the way I stay for you._ She slides her hands free of his and threads her fingers through his hair, touching him, stroking him.

"I won't go," he says. "I'm here now. I promise."

Annie presses her chest to his, like she's trying to figure out if he's solid, if he's real. She searches his eyes, and he knows better now what she's looking for.

And it doesn't matter which of them moves first because they are kissing, clinging, her hands fisted in his hair, his roaming down the line of her back, the curve of her hip. They don't surface for air, can't; he takes the breath she gives him until the world colors red behind his eyes, and he never wants to stop. She moans, and his lips tremble. He kisses her and kisses her and kisses her again, tugs her lower lip with his teeth and licks the walls of her mouth and sucks on her tongue until she breaks away at last, gasping.

"Cabin," she says, her eyes and cheeks almost painfully bright.

"Yes," he says, but doesn't entirely keep his promise. When she bends to open the hatch he kneels behind her and tongues the back of her neck, sucks red circles into her skin. She's flushed and shivering all at once—contradictory, but that's Annie for you, his Annie. He pulls her close and ruts against her back, his face buried in the hollow of her shoulder. He's wearing too many clothes. So is she. He'd fling them all into the ocean right now if he could, leave them both with nothing but each other.

Annie's hand clenches almost painfully around his. "Cabin," she repeats, "so it's just us—"

He laughs, low and hoarse. "You don't want to share me with the sea?"

"Not now, not now—"

They scramble down the ladder, somehow, and he thinks he's the one to slam the hatch closed overhead, but Annie's on him so soon after that he can't tell. She clutches his shoulders, grinds against his leg so hard that both of them almost topple to the floor. No. Not the floor. Finnick sweeps her up and somewhere in that haze of kissing they hit the wall. If they hit it too hard he can't tell—he's laughing, or she is, but either way the sound's shared in their mouths. Annie grabs his shirt and pulls him closer, traps herself between the wall and his chest, and _oh_ he's fine with keeping her there. "Clothes," he says, and she echoes it, and that's about all he can manage for words. He whips his shirt over his head and hauls hers off the same way, never mind the buttons, they can sew those back on later. She's dropping to her knees and taking care of his pants, flinging them away, kissing the jut of his hip. Her hair brushes his groin and he's already so hot there, so hard, so desperate, it's almost enough to make his knees buckle. He drags her up so he won't fall, but she's holding him up as much as he is her. The wall helps keep them upright and he needs that right now, needs something solid and steady because the waves are tilting the floor and Annie's turning his bones into water.

His kisses land on the side of her mouth, her chin, her neck, her collarbones. Everything he can reach, everything he can touch, no reason to have less. She pushes herself into his hands and he takes what she's offering, fondles her breasts and slips a hand between her legs. She's soaked there, wet and warm and beautiful, and he knows he should build her up, stretch this out and make it last, but she's already grinding against his palm and he can't speak can't think can't _breathe_. Something's trapping him against her, a second wall or a wave of heat or something, something that won't let their bodies part. He slides his hand under her thigh and hoists her leg up; she scrambles to cross her heels at the small of his back. She's already sliding over his groin, leaving trails of wet on his skin, and he shudders hard enough to knock her back into the wall.

"Want you," he says, his voice sex-roughened, and she corrects him: "Need you," she gasps, "need you, please—"

He steadies his hands, slides her where he needs her, and pushes in. It's fast, faster than usual with her, one shove to send him all inside. For a minute he can't move at all. Her chest pushes against his, shaking, and she clenches around him outside and in and she's slick and tight and _perfect_ and he never wants to leave. She arches her back, exposes her neck, and through the sweat dripping into his eyes he sees the stains they've already left on the wall, sweat and precome and who knows what else.

"Finnick," she's saying, barely louder than a breath, just his name over and over again. "Finnick, Finnick, _Finnick_ …"

He grips her thighs and starts to thrust, every part of him flexing with the effort. Her legs slip and scrabble and threaten to unhook but that's all right, he'll hold her here like he always has, keep her afloat, keep her where she needs to be. He pounds into her and she pounds back and that's not the sea getting choppy under them, that's them rocking the boat, but even if it capsizes he'll worry about it _later_. Her hips buck and the floor bucks with them and that sends him slamming into her again, scraping his knuckles against the wall. They sting like the salt on his back, the sweat in his eyes. He tries to kiss Annie to ease it but misses her mouth, catches her jaw instead, mouths at it because he's panting too hard to kiss her properly. Even then that's more of her to touch and taste and have. And she's good, she's so so good, slick and scalding around him and with him and dripping enough to soak him clean through.

Faster and faster until the boat isn't rocking but quaking, ceaseless rhythm and motion. She surges, clings, pulls him in so close and so tight that he can't see anything else, can't be anywhere else. They slam together, forward and back. He feels the impact in his bones—everything shakes, everything moves but she's the eye at the center of it. "Yes," she tells him, her voice splintering in the air, "yes yes please yes—"

He buries himself in her until he can't push any further, until there's nothing but heat and warmth and wet, until she's straining against him with everything she has and he's taking it all, driving into her without restraint. He hears the crack of her back hitting the wall, the slick sound of him sliding in and out of her, and her urging him above that, "Don't stop, don't stop, stay."

"Annie," is all he manages before he drives in blisteringly deep, enough to make her shudder and clench and come around him, and he can’t hold out long after that, not with her pulling him in so far he doesn’t know if he'll ever get out again. He doesn't want to, can't leave, won't leave, needs this, _has_ this, and braces his forehead against the wall and comes, pulsing forward until he's wrung dry.

Neither of them breathes.

He doesn't know if she slides down the wall or if he drags her with him, but either way they end up tangled at the foot of it, limbs wrapped around each other in the kinds of knots he doesn't ever want to untangle. "Still can't breathe," she murmurs, pillows her head against his shoulder.

Finnick tilts her chin up. "With me," he says, inhales as he kisses her. She does, too, and exhales into the kiss. "You breathe, I breathe," he says when they break apart.

She nestles even closer. "You stay, I stay."

His next breath catches in his throat.

"I'll stay," she says, more quietly. "I'll try. It's harder to when you're not here."

"I know." He kisses her hair, smoothes a damp strand away from her face. "I could leave part of me with you. The important parts. It's not like I have much use for them in the Capitol."

If he says it to himself enough, he can almost believe it.

She nods. She knows. "I'd like that."

He bears her to the floor and brings them both to rest. A stripe of the wall glistens; their hips and thighs are as slick as they've ever been.

"Besides," she says, "you're not you when you're there. So I can pretend you're here."

"And I'll be back," he promises her. "I'll come home," home like he is now.

But for now he isn't going anywhere.

\---  
\--


End file.
